under the dogstar

The belljar of sweltering summer

containing body and hope and

darkwinged apprehension on the

wires between the rim of your head and the sky. 

You flinch at fleeting. You walk and walk.

You feel tree sweat, humusbreath,

wildgreen overgrowth, edging

woodland, wonderlust, deepforest.

You imagine boughs under glass. You

see points of light sparking between

oak and beech and spruce. You

wishfollow the flight of a butterfly,

your dead sister, her wingstripes thrilling

as eyeliner. She streaks exactly three

colors — orange and white and black. 

She smudges your heartbruise.

Where is she going? Her soul is the opposite

of restless. She thrives in the humidheat,

feeding on milkweed, mudpuddling tiny pools

in the rustearth.  You soften in her season

of crazylushness, under the dogstar,

your path brimming weedlavish. For a day, 

you meet at an age, and for another cycle

you carry her demands — bloomheavy, vinehungry.

© Tori Grant Welhouse